Rand didn't wonder that they resented Gladys so bitterly;
economic considerations aside, girls seldom enthuse over a stepmother so
near their own age who is so much more beautiful.
"Good afternoon, Colonel Rand," Gladys said. "This is Mrs. Varcek." She
indicated a very pale blonde who sat slumped in a deep chair beside a low
cocktail-table, a highball in her hand. "And Mrs. Dunmore." She was the
brunette with the full bust and hips, in the short black skirt and the
tight white sweater, who was standing by the fireplace.
"H'lo." The blonde--Geraldine--smiled shyly at him. She had big blue
eyes, and delicately tinted rose-petal lips that seemed to be trying not
to laugh at some private joke. She wasn't exactly blotto, but she had
evidently laid a good foundation for a first-class jag. After all, it was
only two thirty in the afternoon.
The other sister--Nelda--didn't say anything. She merely stood and stared
at Rand distrustfully. Rand doubted that she ordinarily gave men the
hostile eye. The full, dark-red lips; the lush figure; the way she draped
it against the side of the fireplace, to catch the ruddy light on her
more interesting curves and bulges--there was a bimbo just made to be
leered at, and she probably resented it like hell if she weren't.
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